


So true a fool is love

by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind)



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Richard III - Shakespeare, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Crossover, I do not have a consistent writing schedule, John Has a Beard, King/Prince AU, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, References to Shakespeare, Rimming, Sad Sherlock, Shakespeare Quotations, Shakespearean AU, Shakespearean Sonnets, Virgin Sherlock, Work In Progress, basically sorry Billy, freebeard, like absolutely microscopic, more or less, smol sherlock, updates are all over the place, well that's a non-sequitur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansa_undergrind/pseuds/consultinggalpals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exiled, never to return to his homeland, the Prince of Denmark finds himself at the mercy of a notoriously ruthless monarch. When he catches the King's eye, the Prince must do everything he can to stay in his sovereign's good graces while surviving an increasingly hostile court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, where to begin? Remember [that one post of Martin as Richard III next to a picture of Ben as Hamlet](http://consultinggalpals.tumblr.com/post/127588853219/hudders-and-hiddles-crimson-winter)? Yeah, that sparked a whole slew of anon prompts, which grew into sinful ficlets bounced back and forth between me and [iamjohnlocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life) (and [deduce-my-heart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/linds7/pseuds/deduce-my-heart)), which then quickly took a turn for the grandiose in my mind.
> 
> I decided I wanted to flesh out a proper AU behind the simple “two shakespearean nerds thought it would be fun to have Hamlet, Prince of Denmark and King Richard III shag because freebeard”. More than a month later, here’s a first glimpse at the final product. The plot of the story incorporates elements from various Shakespearean plays, such as Hamlet and Richard III. The characters are never explicitly named as Sherlock characters, but it is to be understood that the Prince is intrinsically Sherlock while the King is John. There will be other characters and situations, which I will introduce as Shakespearean but will be Sherlockian at the core. I hope this does not get too confusing, but to avoid spoilers in advance, there will be a list of dramatis personae in the end notes of each chapter.  
> This will neither be 100% historically accurate, nor absolutely faithful to the original Shakespearean plays, so please if there’s any purists in the audience, do not take offense! I did my best with as much in-depth research as I could and any and all mistakes will just be… creative license.
> 
> I owe everything to my relentless coach as well as beta [iamjohnlocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life), who cheered me on and provided me with inspiration in the first place. Seriously, none of this would have happened without her, she is extra amazing with awesome on top. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # ACT ONE

_Journeys end in lovers’ meeting_  
_Every wise man’s son doth know._

Twelfth Night — Act II, Scene III

* * *

Seafaring was not a novelty for the Prince. Many times, he had crossed the short stretch of water between Denmark and Norway, and in his university days, he had oft found himself on a ship circumnavigating the island that he called home to reach the continent. He never made much of this mode of transportation, confining himself to his cabin from harbour to harbour, his only company his books. There was absolutely _nothing_ of interest for him out there, he would tell himself.

Never had he ventured westwards though.

They had left the peaceful sheltered waters surrounding Elsinore a few days hence. The well-known coastline had long vanished from sight and still the Prince looked on with fascination. The deck was slippery and his grip on the railings lax; his body leant slightly overboard, tempting fate, allowing for just one small shift to send him plummeting to the swirling abyss below. He found he did not care, as he was certain that whatever awaited him at the end of this voyage could not be of a less painful nature.

He stood stock still, burrowed in a fur cape much too big for his slender frame, as the bitter North Sea wind rendered his lips chapped and his fingers numb. Tucked in his breast pocket was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment: a letter, bearing his brother the King’s seal, placing now the young Prince under the complete tutorage of His Majesty the King of England. He was irrevocably exiled from Denmark, a pawn in his brother’s diplomatic games to be dealt with at some higher power’s discretion.

The Prince and his brother never quite saw eye to eye on certain matters, especially those connected to the Prince’s employment of his free time. His brother insisted he found some better occupation for his mind than lounging about in his chambers, smoking queer substances imported from the Americas and bereaving the world for not providing the Prince with a cure for his self-inflicted boredom. The Prince’s brother had grown ever more insufferable since he had taken their Father’s place on the throne as the King of Denmark.

The Prince inhaled deeply, feeling the salty mist against his cheeks, and tightened his grip on the wooden balustrade. His jaw worked in dismay as he considered the excruciatingly dull role he had been imposed with, playing the reverent ambassador, swearing his utter _devotion_ to the English Crown and the man who was currently wearing it.

He hadn’t even been arsed to inquire after the name. He snorted. He had a clear picture of what this man would eventually look like: short, old and arrogant. A fool bloated with a sense of self-importance to rival his brother’s. He was not at all eager to subject his intellect to such nonsense and once again considered the water below him with interest.

Above the Prince’s head, somebody shouted and the whole ship gave a great heave as the helmsman steered the vessel on a more southerly course.

* * *

 It was late afternoon when the ship came into shouting distance of the port of London. The Prince’s ears were suddenly attacked by a riotous cacophony of noises, as men both on board and on land tried to coordinate their actions to ensure a safe docking. His mind had not diverted from brooding over what had become of his life, but he stopped now for a moment to appreciate the display before him.

Not for the first time on this long and weary journey, the Prince found himself looking appreciatively at the crew. Hefty men in loosely draped shirts were a weakness of his, especially as they stood flexing their sinewy muscles and pulled on ropes to alight the ship to the pier. The way sweat and seawater made the fabric of their clothes cling to their powerful bodies was tantalising, sending a warm tingly sensation to gather around his groin.

This would not do. He had thought of imposing his status as Prince of Denmark to claim the company of one of these men in his cabin throughout the journey – because he could and because it would irritate his brother _immensely_ – but he had always lacked the bravado. He was aware that he must look like a blushing maiden to such weathered men. _All nice girls love a sailor, indeed_ , he thought with a huff. He had yet to know the enjoyment such a distraction would provide him, but what he lacked in practical knowledge, he made up with a fervid imagination. Almost every night he had lain in his bunk, picturing the heady feeling of strong arms around his waist and a sturdy cock between his arse cheeks. A few frantic strokes had been enough to fulfil his transport’s need to be pleasured, blessedly silencing his mind for a handful of minutes, and nobody, _especially_ not his brother, would ever be the wiser.

Once again, his thoughts turned spiteful and were directed at his meddling brother, who had always placed an overbearing insistence on the family’s honour and its need to be upheld with decorum and most importantly, a spotless reputation. He pursed his lips in annoyance and wondered briefly what his new master would make of it, were the young Prince to indulge in such a lifestyle at his court. Would it be enough to send him back home or would the King not take kindly to such an offence and demand retribution? Oh _god_ , he hoped he wasn’t expected to do anything degrading, such as _marrying_ one of the many insipid English ladies that no doubt flocked to this decrepit King’s court. His nose crinkled in disgust.

This line of thought was brusquely interrupted by the first mate impatiently tutting at his side.

“Tell me then, am I finally allowed to disembark this wretched vessel or am I to never touch ground again in my life?”

The first mate rolled his eyes, no doubt just as eager to have the Prince leave his ship and be done with the dramatics.

“There’s a carriage waiting for you, your Highness, whenever you are ready.”

The Prince sniffed and pulled his cape closer around his body, before following the man along the ship’s edge and down onto a ledge on dry land.

True to the first mate’s words, a carriage was waiting not five yards away. The Prince had barely any time to take in the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the side and the pair of beautiful bay horses impatiently pawing the ground, before the door opened and he was ushered in. He stumbled in the confined space, his bottom ungracefully meeting the seat as the carriage started moving with a jolt.

“Welcome to England, your Highness,” a suave drawl floated out of the almost total obscurity. A man’s voice, the Prince was sure, and not native of this island. Possibly Irish, he mused. He wished for a sliver of light to guide his deductions.

“I thank you, sir. But who have I the pleasure of talking to?”

“Pleasure indeed,” the voice sneered. “They call me many things, your Highness, some of which not quite for your delicate ears, I assure you,” it continued, dancing up and down, and the Prince could almost make out the smile that went with it. He quirked an eyebrow, amused, before leaning forward, trying his best to decipher the man sitting in front of him.

“I am hoping they did not just send the first stableboy to greet a foreign dignitary, as that would be _very_ bad form indeed, sir.” The Prince rested his elbows on his knees, before pressing the templed tips of his fingers to his chin. “And yet they could verily not send anybody from the royal family to deal with such an incongruous… delivery. I’ve been told my ego is monstrous, but even I must concede that I could be considered a nuisance at best and would not dream such an honour. You, sir, must fall right in between such roles. A trusted confidante, somebody working in the innermost circles of the court. Possibly even the infamous King’s right hand, who I’m told is of Irish descent. Am I getting close, sir?”

There was a long silence before the other man all but purred, “ _Very_ good, your Highness.”

Unexpectedly, a cold shiver ran down the Prince’s spine. He was not used to people taking kindly to his deductions, true, but he wasn’t sure if such fondness from a perfect stranger was preferable. He was suddenly very aware of the other man’s proximity and shifted backwards hastily, trying to avoid an accidental bump of knees.

“The name’s Iago, your Highness, and I trust you’ll find me at your _complete_ disposal,” the man continued, apparently oblivious to the Prince’s unease.

The Prince made a noncommittal noise and was now at a loss as to how to proceed the conversation further. Lists and lists of possible topics flashed before his eyes – years of small talk droned into his brain by his mother first and then his brother – and yet he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth again.

“Oh, please your Highness, do not be spooked by my forwardness,” the man – Iago – said. “I am merely trying to establish a rapport with you. We will be seeing _so much_ of each other, after all.”

This brought pause to the Prince.

“I thought my duty was going to be to the King himself?”

Iago gave a small amused chortle.

“Certainly, your Highness, you were not expecting the King to wait at your beck and call? You _are_ a foreign… dignitary as you so well put it and His Majesty does have more pressing matters to concern himself with.”

_I am nothing more than a hostage, you mean_ , the Prince amended in his mind. He knitted his brows briefly. What _had_ he expected? Surely not to be met with any kind of pomp, but neither to be relegated to the care of some second rate courtier. And certainly not the type of courtier who managed to make his skin crawl without even showing his face. He might have miscalculated the size of the predicament he was in, the Prince thought, as the realisation of how completely _alone_ he was in this strange new land started to sink in.

“I… suppose. Although I hope to at least be formally introduced to His Majesty, at some point.” He tried for haughty – for god’s sake, he knew he had at least _some_ rights to his name – but he wasn’t sure he succeeded in making his voice quite as steady as he would have liked.

“Oh, but of course.” In the darkness, the Prince could make out a quick movement, as if the man had waved a hand dismissively in front of his face. “You might catch a glimpse of him tonight at the feast in fact, although I’m afraid you won’t be asked to participate.” There was a deep exasperated sigh. “Court formalities can be so vexing.”

The Prince didn’t know if he was expected to agree out of politeness or not, but was spared the trouble when the carriage blessedly stopped. He heard a curt voice asking for the details of the people in the carriage and the driver’s equally short reply, before the guards let them in through the portcullis.

There were noises now, and light drifting inside the crammed carriage, and the Prince could feel his chest untighten slightly. Looking out of the small window on the carriage door, he saw water and short stone ledges running along the side of the bridge they were crossing, and just ahead of them the dark outline of the castle and its stout towers. He breathed in the realisation that the world did not end inside the suffocating bubble Iago had managed to create around the Prince.

In the cone of yellow light now spilling from the window, the Prince could finally take in the physical appearance of the man he had shared the ride with. Iago appeared shorter in built than the Prince, albeit clearly a handful of years older. His hair, raven dark, was short and slicked back and his features, stretched in a placid smile, were mostly pleasing to the eye, if a bit disarming. His glinting brown eyes were especially disconcerting and the Prince found he’d rather not meet the man’s gaze directly. Said gaze was now roving every inch of the Prince’s body, from the top of his messy curls to his large hands, clasped tightly in his lap, down to the tip of his leather boots. To say that he felt unsettled was an understatement, and yet the Prince did his best to hold his head up high, looking straight ahead.

The carriage stopped once more and this time there were an indefinite number of raised voices and a bit of movement outside, before the door opened.

“Please, your Highness, after you.”

With a deep steadying breath, the Prince stepped out in the chilly night air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you have [iamjohnlocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life) to thank for this piece of madness <3

_“Hear my soul speak._  
_Of the very instant that I saw you,  
_ _Did my heart fly at your service”_

The Tempest — Act III, Scene I

* * *

As several men in livery bustled around the carriage, unloading chests and smaller pieces of luggage, the Prince took a moment to look at what was to become his home for the foreseeable future.

They had stopped in the middle of a cobbled courtyard, encircled by thick stone walls. Looming in front of them was the White Tower itself. The Prince had read much about its history, about the mysterious murders and overt executions that had taken place side by side with large banquets and royal celebrations. He had read of the Kings from across the Channel, who had built on top of each other, like termites scrabbling to reach higher than their predecessors and almost swallowing up the night sky in the process. All of it neatly stored away for future perusing, but which he had never dreamt would become useful in his lifetime.

Most importantly, he had a sudden recollection of just who sat on the English throne at this moment. Faced with the incontrovertible truth of such a dreary place, he was reminded of the sort of man who inhabited it. He had heard stories, fragmented pieces of news from travelling minstrels, about a great King who ruled in the West and who had ascended to the throne in what many had considered suspicious circumstances. Young boys had vanished without a trace, apparently whisked away in the night to be ruthlessly killed by the man they would have called Uncle. The Prince had also heard of this King’s fearsome presence on the battlefield, a mighty powerful fighter, charging into danger without a second glance, and he would be loathe to admit just how much this frightened him, who was used to a peaceful sort of life, the only type of sword he had ever held a fencing one, never used in the heat of battle.

All of a sudden it was too much, and the Prince felt a pang in his chest which left him breathless, as he thought of spindly towers and large grassy grounds sloping into the Øresund. He ached for the gentle sea, for the soft hills, for the wide open skies; the reality of his new life stared viciously down at him and he felt like a small child, trying to hold the beach in the palm of his hand, watching the sand slip through his fingers, impossible to stop from cascading at his feet.

Iago looked at him, that same seraphic smile dancing on his lips, and the Prince did his best to compose his face in an unaffected mask. He had no doubt the man had read his weakness plain as day on his features, but he strived to have it be the last time he would be caught unaware. _Into battle_ , he grimaced, before stepping over to his chaperon.

Iago led the way through a small oaken door on the side of the tower, without glancing back to make sure the Prince was following. He set off at a brisk pace along the dimly lit corridor.

The Prince was left to his own musings as he followed silently, and he tried to will his body to relax. He was about to be brought to the King’s presence, he reasoned, with whom he would surely be asked to share pleasantries. Therefore, he needed to rehearse a speech in his head, to prepare his words so that he would make the best impression on the monarch. There was no way this man could possibly hold the Prince’s interest for more than a scant few minutes, he decided, and as much as it pained him, he needed to keep his vitriolic remarks on this fool of a king to himself. Once he endured this brief interaction, he would be more or less free to do as he pleased with himself—provided that he could also avoid interacting with Iago when at all possible.

Yes, he would be the perfect picture of civility. Even his rubbish brother would have to note appreciatively on his grace and aplomb in the face of the royal court. And he could start afresh in this strange land, carving a small and undisturbed spot for himself in it. There was no reason for the King to ask more of him than a civil acquaintance, and the Prince was sure that left to himself he could even thrive in such a place as this.

Iago stopped abruptly in front of him and the Prince was suddenly aware of the muffled din of laughter coming from the other side of the wall to his right. The Prince felt his footing slip from under him as a realisation started to nibble at the back of his mind. Something was wrong. They were inside a secondary passage, one used primarily by the servants who were tending to the feast and surely not the place for a Prince to be when being introduced to a foreign court. How did he fail to notice sooner? He stared wide-eyed at his guide in the torchlight, but Iago didn’t falter, merely met his gaze as if willing the Prince to voice his displeasure.

For the second time that evening, the Prince was the first to look away, cursing inwardly at his own weakness.

“You will have to wait here, I’m afraid,” Iago said, sounding utterly contrite. “I will have to gain the King’s authorisation for your triumphal entry, you understand.”

The Prince nodded in the direction of his boots, too stunned to even remark on the omission of his title. The whole sentence sounded deliberately construed to wound him and it made the Prince irritated beyond words that it had succeeded.

The sound from the room to their right grew in intensity as Iago pulled open a small door in the wall and was gone without another word.

The Prince felt a cold dread creep up over him. This was unexpected. He had not prepared himself for such a situation as this. He had envisioned his first night at court as a boring affair, endless rounds of small talk and polite nonsense shared with a group of idiotic monkeys. The thought that he would not even be admitted to the King’s presence, that the man could flat out refuse to see him had not even grazed his awareness. But of course he was in a foreign land, no doubt there were far more pressing matters than a young exiled Prince who did not know any better.

Again, he felt his loneliness start to crowd around him, beginning to pull at the edges of his self-consciousness, as he wondered why on earth did he believe the King would want to meet him in the first place. And why did he care that he might not.

He started to grow restless. What was he supposed to do? Obviously he was expected to wait Iago’s return, but he could not bear to be left with his own self-commiserating thoughts a minute longer. Furthermore, he was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet with his desire to get a glimpse of the festivity and of the women and men that attended it.

Soon curiosity gained the best of him and he leaned toward the door to peer into the hall. He found he was placed at the farthest end of the hall, as far away from the wide main doors as possible. To his right were rows and rows of long tables full of people, and great fires were burning at each end of the room, while colourful banners floated high in the rafters. His gaze drifted to his left, where a great dais domineered over the room at large and where no doubt the most important figures at the feast would be seated. He considered briefly all the nobles and dames and courtiers, noting nothing remarkable in their faces until he reached the middle seats.

There he saw Iago, standing behind a man with greying hair and a grizzled beard. He was dressed in full regimentals, his crimson coat covered in several medals which glinted in the candlelight. The man sat forward in his seat and eyed the room steadily, a fingertip grazing lightly back and forth over his top lip. Somehow, the Prince found the simple gesture oddly fascinating and he was only distantly aware of his brain suggesting the man in red could only be the King himself.

The Prince had to admit that the man was nothing like he had imagined, although he stood too far away to read his features in a satisfying manner. Nevertheless, he did not doubt for a second that such a man could be the one to have so many horrible deeds associated with his name. The way this King held his head, as if there was nothing in the world that he would not sacrifice to reach his goal—the Prince felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the drafty corridor he was standing in.

He looked on, as Iago leaned in closer to the King, murmuring something in his ear. Something about him, the Prince realised with a start, and he retreated further into the shadows lest he be discovered lurking like a big ungraceful crow.

Iago finished speaking and leaned back, waiting for an answer. The Prince found himself holding his breath as he watched on, his fists clenched tightly against his thighs. He did not know he wanted the King’s acknowledgment of his person as badly as he did before he had cause of holding this intriguing man in his gaze. He felt a bone-deep desire for his approval that he could not in any rational way explain.

It turned out he needn’t bother, since the King’s answer was a curt nod and a distracted wave of the hand that was not pressed against his lips. He looked utterly unperturbed, dismissing the whole of the Prince’s being with a quick gesture and the Prince felt his stomach drop below the sole of his boots at the realisation that he was _nothing_ in the King’s mind. Less than a speck of dust or a bothersome fly, he did not deserve even a quick glance in his direction.

He stepped away from the doorway to slump against the jamb.

The Prince knew rationally that the King’s regard surely did not matter in the slightest, and that being ignored by such a man as this, guilty of so many unspeakable deeds, was only for the better. The Prince thought of being brought to the centre of attention, asked about his family and the reason he was exiled, while all those people looked on and jeered—it was better this way. Safer. There was no risk of humiliation at the hand of the whole court.

But still the rejection stung deep in his chest and he wished the floor would open up under him to swallow him whole.

He saw Iago’s approaching form and quickly stood at attention, schooling his face in a blank emotionless mask. There was no need to provide the man with proof that the King’s rejection had upset him as it did.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, your Highness.” There was a cheerful lilt in Iago’s voice and the Prince did not fail to notice he was back to using his honorific. What he also did not fail to notice was the way it dripped with insincerity.

“Not at all,” the Prince bowed his head in understanding.

“His Majesty was very pleased to hear the news of your arrival,” Iago continued. The Prince fought the impulse to raise his eyebrows in mock surprise. “But he cannot possibly meet you as of now.”

“Understandable. I am myself weary of my travels and would much rather retire for the night, if possible.”

“Oh but of course,” Iago clasped his hands, somehow delighted by this. “If you will follow me, your Highness.”

He set off again, the Prince trailing sullenly in his wake. They walked for several minutes along the corridor, which the Prince had started to believe unending, before Iago took a left and started to ascend a narrow stone staircase. The Prince felt his unease grow in his chest again.

“Your rooms are just up here, your Highness. Don’t worry,” Iago waved a hand in the direction of the Prince behind him, somehow sensing his distress without looking him in the eye. “We have not placed you in the servant’s quarters. We’re just taking a shortcut through their passageways. They provide a swifter route in this maze of a castle, you will soon understand.”

They finally reached a narrow landing and a small wooden door.

“This is it, your Highness.”

Iago stepped aside as the Prince approached the door and placed his hand tentatively on the latch.

“If you’ll be needing… _anything_ , do not hesitate to ring the servant’s bell. Somebody will be with you instantly, I assure you.”

The Prince did not like the way Iago emphasised the first part of his sentence, but he said nothing, merely giving a short nod.

“Good night, then.”

“Sweet dreams, your Highness.” And with a last bow of his head and a glint of his unsettling smile, Iago was gone.

Only then did the Prince feel himself taking the first deep breath since his arrival, his lungs expanding to their full capacity to take in all the air Iago’s presence had drained from them.

The Prince pushed the door opened, shaking his head clear of Iago’s disquieting influence. He felt drained, a bone-deep weariness settling on him at the prospect of a lifetime of such encounters ahead of him—even more so, if the King refused to acknowledge his presence at court and would rather relegate the Prince to the complete care of his right hand man.

The Prince shivered in the darkness of the new rooms he found himself in. He decided to push all these thoughts as far away from his mind as possible, leaving them to be dealt with in the morning after a proper night of sleep.

He had already started to unbutton the top buttons of his great travelling coat when he noticed something peculiar about the room he was in. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough for him to make out the towering shape of a gigantic canopy bed in the middle of the room. Oddly luxurious for a guest room, he mused before shrugging the coat off of his shoulder.

He folded it neatly over a chair, before leaning over the desk to light a candle. As he lifted it to carry it back to the bed something he noticed out of the corner of his eye had him freeze mid-stride.

He looked at it more carefully, raising the candle high next to it, flooding it with a warm light, and the Prince recoiled.

There, right at the foot of the bed, was a great coat of arms engraved in the woodwork, and it depicted a great white boar flanked by the King’s initials in elaborate golden lettering.

The Prince almost dropped the candle in his surprise. These were the King’s personal chambers—how did he manage to get turned around so badly? He would certainly be caught and thrown in the dungeons for trespassing, they would take him for a spy, prying on the King’s most private secrets.

He felt a blinding panic rise at the back of his throat, and he spun wildly on the spot, wax dripping at his feet and a hand fisted in his curls. He looked around him frantically for a way out, any way out, _oh dear god_ , this could not be happening on top of _everything_ —

The sound of the latch catching as the wide door on the opposite side of the room was pushed open sounded loud and ominous. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling like a trapped animal just waiting for the final blow.

There was a moment of silence before he heard a short intake of breath followed by a gruff voice saying, “Well, isn’t this unexpected.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, life has been getting in the way. As usual, big enormous thanks to [iamjohnlocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life) for being not only an awesome beta but also my moon and stars, my conductor of light, and the mozzarella on my pizza <3

_“Flesh stays no farther reason,_  
_But rising at thy name, doth point out thee_  
_As his triumphant prize.”_

Sonnet 151

* * *

The Prince kept his eyes squeezed shut.

He imagined the look of abject disgust on his captor’s face, the alarmed intake of breath just before a shout for ‘Guards!’ would shake through his tensed body, and then men in armour would be swarming the room, pulling at his limbs and dragging him somewhere dark to have his head kicked in.

It was not fair, he thought wildly, he had no intention of causing any trouble. He just wished to proceed with his life as discreetly as possible. Getting tangled in this infernal affair and being thought of as a spy—he could almost hear the exasperated pitch in his brother’s voice. _Ever the troublemaker, brother dear. What would Father say?_

He braced himself for the onslaught, but what reached his ears instead was so unexpected that he thought he might have gone partially deaf.

He let out a soft questioning whimper.

“I said, you can open your eyes, I am no Medusa.”

The Prince unscrewed one eye open and had to let out one more distraught whimper because standing not five feet from him was the King himself.

The King whose chambers he had just been found in. The King who had not even wanted to greet him formally at the feast. The King who had ruthlessly dealt with all his opposers on his way to the throne.

A shiver ran down his spine as the Prince was now given the opportunity to study the man’s features more closely. In doing so, he also had reason to completely upturn the mental image he had conjured of the man as he had sailed across the North Sea. Sure, the man was short, the Prince towered almost a head over him, and old, at least fifteen years the Prince’s senior, and no doubt arrogant, as the Prince was able to read from the crooked grin playing at the corner of his lips. Yet he was the perfect picture of amused disbelief, even as the Prince could perceive something dark lingering behind that steely gaze.

And the Prince felt drawn to him instantly.

What he had felt twisting deep in his chest as he looked from that dark corridor onto the festive hall—that feeling of needing this man’s approval as if his own life depended on it—was back, stronger than ever. He had a dizzying thought of himself prostrate at this man’s feet asking for forgiveness, for mercy, begging desperately for what he was not sure. It was irrational and inexplicable and it left him reeling.

He opened his mouth, closed it, drew in a shaky breath and opened his mouth again.

“In your own time, my boy,” said the King, as he took a step into the room. He looked incredibly at ease for someone who had just found a stranger in his own personal chambers. He strode to the fireplace, poked at the dying fire gently to revive it, before turning again, hands clasped behind him, to study the Prince in detail.

The Prince did not know what to make of this, but as the threat of being dragged by the hair out of the room seemed not immediate, he relaxed minutely. He set down the candle he was still holding by the bed. Perhaps he could explain the misunderstanding, _yes_ , explain how it was all a case of mistaken rooms. Surely he could make the King see that it was never his intention and—

The King’s next words made all of the Prince’s blood drain from his face to gather forcefully around his nether regions.

“Have you been sent to warm my bed tonight?”

The King smiled lasciviously at the Prince, eyes wandering along the lean frame of the young man.

The Prince looked down at himself, wondering stupidly what could have prompted such a reaction. He took in his modest travelling clothes, the plain curlicued patterns on his velvet doublet, the snug breeches. Nothing in his appearance would suggest he was anything but a weary traveller.

On top of that his own physical appearance must have been a fright: his usually pale complexion now mottled with a pink flush, his hair a wind tossed bird’s nest—and then his long gangly limbs hanging limply at his sides. A devilishly handsome stranger seducing the King in his chambers, he was not.

Apparently the King was privy to something more.

“Granted I am not usually one for surprises,” the King shrugged. “But aye, would that they were all as lovely as you.”

Wherever the King’s eyes lingered, the Prince felt a gentle heat simmering to the surface. It was so exceedingly contrary to the way he felt under Iago’s scrutiny, that he felt like preening. He wanted to expose more of his flesh to the King’s assessment. His own eyes widened and he felt blood rushing back to his face, a furious flush creeping across his cheeks.

The King’s eyes stopped for a moment longer on the Prince’s full lips before meeting his gaze inquisitively.

“What is the matter, boy, has that sinful mouth not been gifted with an equally sinful tongue?”

The King’s voice held its flirtatious tone, but it edged now towards earnest concern. The Prince blinked twice owlishly, before he hastened to correct this assumption.

 “N-no,” he spluttered, utterly undignified. “That is to say, my lord, I mean, your Majesty, I mean...damn! Apologies, your Grace. I am tremendously sorry; this has been a terrible misunderstanding…”

The Prince’s ramblings caused the King to close off, his features turning stony and his dark blue eyes hardening into glittering sapphires. The King’s posture, which up until then had been relaxed, stiffened to an almost military stance. The man drew to his full height and managed to loom over the Prince even as the Prince had to look down his nose to meet his gaze. The man’s compact frame was so thoroughly imposing it made the Prince shrink in his place.

 “You will excuse me for not understanding, then, what would you happen to be doing in my chambers.”

It was not a question, it was a demand for a concise and satisfactory explanation, and it carried once again the threat of dark dungeons and arms shackled to the ceiling.

The Prince flushed deeper. Eager to prove his innocence he took a stumbling step forward, hands splayed wide in front of him.

“Nothing! I was doing nothing; I just… got turned around.”

“Turned around.”

“Yes, on my way to my own guest quarters. The corridor was very dark and Iago must have mistaken the door and—”

The King raised one small hand to shush the Prince.

“Your _guest_ quarters, you say? And just who might you be, wandering my castle’s corridors in the company of my own right hand man.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I did not see you at the feast.”

The Prince drew his brows in confusion. Of course he hadn’t seen him, he had been dismissed before even reaching the hall,as the man knew perfectly well. He loathed the idea of being so mercilessly teased.

“I am the Prince of Denmark, your Majesty,” he said tentatively. “My brother the King has been in touch about my…” he struggled for a better sounding synonym for exile. “Situation,” he finished lamely.

The King still looked unconvinced. He now regarded the Prince with clinical detachment, all of his good humour gone, replaced by a blank rigid mask.

“Look I- I have a letter in his name.” He lurched towards the chair on which he had folded his greatcoat, reaching inside with nervous sweaty hands. He all but shoved the bit of parchment in the King’s face.

The King took the missive and skimmed through it, a hand stroking pensively against his bristly chin. The Prince’s eyes followed the movement as he awaited his judgement.

“Yes, I do recall this matter. You would be that troublesome little monster I was asked to keep an eye on in exchange for full access to the trading routes in the east.”

The Prince’s flush veered towards a more embarrassed hue at the patronising tone. He had not read the letter, but knowing his brother, he could very well imagine the demeaning timbre it surely carried. The Prince was not quite sure whether he preferred being regarded as a mysterious seducer or a nosy brat. Neither option was a dignified one in the Prince’s mind and furthermore the insinuation that he was akin to cattle in his brother’s schemes stung bitterly.

“Well then,” the King folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. He levelled an amused stare at the Prince. “It seems I owe you a thousand apologies, your Highness. How rude of me to speak with my cock rather than my brain. And to a foreign dignitary nonetheless.”

How this man managed to say such things without a hint of self-consciousness was a mystery for the Prince, who was afraid his ears would start smoking, they were running so hot. Before he could even attempt to formulate a reply, the King had moved past him towards his desk.

“Please allow me to make amends,” he reached for a decanter to pour out a glass of wine. “Would you care for a drink?”

The Prince paused, collecting his frantic thoughts. He could not get a reading on this man, turbulent and ever changing as the sea. He presently professed an interest in the Prince, acting charming and amiable, and yet had denied him entry to the feast. What did it mean? Did the King wish to test him somehow? To see if the Prince was easily swayed and could be trodden on as pleased? And the teasing, _heavens_. To think he had almost believed the compliments he had been paid, so eager to accept even the smallest scrap of attention devoted to his person.

The Prince swallowed. He had had enough of people’s false intentions hidden behind falser smiles at home. He had no desire to begin a new life marred by sheer humiliation at the King’s hand. If there was one thing he agreed upon with his brother, it was that the Prince of Denmark was as prideful as a wild untamed wolf.

“No thank you, my Lord,” he said in a small voice. He fidgeted with the front of his doublet. “If it’s quite all right, I’d much rather retire for the night.”

He felt the King’s eyes bore into him, but he could not bring himself to meet them. He sniffed and waited to be dismissed.

There was a long pregnant pause before the King nodded his agreement.

“As you wish, your Highness.” He scratched at his cheek. “Far be it from me to keep you detained past what’s decorous.”

He brought the wine to his lips and before taking a sip added, “You may take your pick of any rooms along this corridor. Do try not to get further… turned around.”

The finality in these words rang clear in the Prince’s ears. He bowed his head stiffly, taking his leave. He felt the King’s eyes prickling along his neck as he strode out of the doors the man had come through. The sound of the latch sliding close behind him made him shudder in the wide and drafty corridor.

He took a few calming breaths. His first instinct was to pick the room furthest from the King’s, putting as much distance between them as possible to avoid further embarrassing encounters. His second thought was that the King would rightly consider the gesture very rude, possibly believing the Prince’s intent to actively avoid the King a fallout of said embarrassing encounter. The King might get the idea that the Prince had felt slighted by the King’s forwardness. Which, he realised with shame, was as far from the truth as possible.

Despite the man’s impossible behaviour, the Prince still felt that warm bubble of yearning burning in his chest. He wanted the King’s sharp eyes on him, even as they mercilessly tore him apart. In his breeches, the Prince could feel himself grow stiff.

The thrumming electricity of the man he had left behind still sang through his veins, and the intensity of his desire was fighting a ferocious fight against his better judgement.

Before anybody else could come and question him about his lurking, the Prince strode down the corridor and opened the room two doors down from the King’s. He shut the door behind him forcefully and kicked his boots off his feet, before flinging himself on the bed – a simpler one, with no canopy and no lavish engraving.

He stared at the ceiling spitefully, willing his traitorous body to stop this nonsense at once.

It was no use. The Prince’s mind kept trailing back to the way those eyes had seemed to strip him naked and consume him whole, and before long he was aching for release, his cock fully erect and pushing insistently at his breeches.

With an irritated groan he twisted around in the bed, unfastening his breeches and pressing his front down into the mattress. He rolled his hips once, relishing the friction caused by the silky sheets on his naked cock. He pictured those eyes on his back, taking in his writhing form with an appraising grin.

He stuffed a hand beneath him and took himself in hand just as that voice rang sultrily in his ears.

 _That’s it, my boy. What a lovely sight you are_.

He felt ghost hands on his hips, guiding his movements with insistence. He muffled his moans in the pillow and pumped faster, his hand slick with sweat and pre-ejaculate. He was already so precariously close that it merely took the imagined feeling of bristly lips brushing against his ear to send him over the edge. He spilled with a choked sob all over his hand.

He wallowed in the feeling of placid contentment following his orgasm for as long as he could, but he could not stop shame from tiptoeing around it. He was sure that masturbating to thoughts of his sovereign could be considered a bit not good in anyone’s mind, but what was unbearable was the ridiculous delusion that the King would bestow on him such heated passions.

The last thought before sleep claimed him was for dark blue eyes cast in a stern face, judging him for his naiveté.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [emerges three months later with a plotty chapter] thank you, I love you, good bye <3
> 
> (ps: many thanks to my beta JL4L as per usual)

_“All days are nights to see till I see thee,_  
_And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.”_

Sonnet 43

* * *

The Prince’s dreams tasted of home that night.

He saw himself wandering through his Father’s library, fingers caressing the leather bound spines as snow gently flocked outside the high arched windows. Everything was awash in a soft white glow and the only sound that could be heard was the muffled trod of the Prince’s bare feet on the carpet.

He was alone, he was certain of it with the finality that only dreams have, and yet couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed closely, the hairs on his neck standing unnervingly at attention.

He moved forward, almost gliding between high piles of books and scattered papers, until he reached a door. He knew what lay beyond it. He had known since he was a small child and had been told sternly never to cross it without authorisation: Father’s personal study.

Tentatively, he pushed at the door until with a rattling creak it swung ominously open.

There was someone—or some _thing_ —in the room. It was ethereal in appearance, ghostly, and stood by the window with its back to the Prince. The Prince did not recognise it at first, the shimmering contours of its frame too indistinct to pin down. As it slowly turned around, the Prince was stunned to be looking once again at the familiar features of his Father.

The ghost looked at the Prince with sad downcast eyes. It said nothing, but there was such gentle concern in its face and demeanour that the Prince felt his chest tighten painfully. He wanted to comfort Father, reassure his ghostly form that he needn’t worry for his son. He would do well in life, as he had promised. He just needed time to prove himself.

As the Prince opened his mouth to say all this, the form before him shifted and changed, morphing to his mortification into the shape of the King. The translucent figure now regarded the Prince with utter contempt, all of its features hardened into granite. What troubled the Prince the most was the disgusted look it cast him. _I know what you did, you filthy whore_ , that stare said. The Prince cringed, wanted to cover his face and hide in shame.

Just as he was about to, the figure before him changed one last time. The grinning form of Iago now stood in front of him with a knowing look in its eyes. The Prince shuddered and took a step back, his shoulder blades colliding with the hard wood of the door. The disturbing apparition tilted its head and grinned wider, its teeth turning into pointy fangs. Just as it was about to take a step forward the Prince awakened with a start.

The Prince opened his eyes to the grey haze of the hours just before dawn. He lay still, forcing his thundering heart and ragged breath to slow down. He felt a cold sheen of sweat along his brow and realised with a grimace that he was still covered in his own emissions from the night prior.

He stripped down, throwing his clothes carelessly somewhere off the side of the bed and lay back down with a huff. He would need to call for warm water and he hoped the servants would be discreet enough not to remark upon the state of the sheets. He was also suddenly aware that he had no idea what had happened to his possessions following the events of last night. Surely they wouldn’t have sent his trunks to the King’s chambers. He would need to call for someone to bring them to his rooms.

Naked and alone, he weighed the prospect of having clean clothes against being witness to Iago’s smug grin first thing in the morning.

His face scrunched up in dismay and he curled tighter on his side. He was now certain that the man’s ‘mistake’ had been intentional, either attempting to have him sent to the dungeons so soon after his arrival or at the very least forcing the young Prince to be humiliated beyond words in the King’s presence. Iago’s smile might not have been equipped with literal fangs, but there was no doubt in the Prince’s mind that the man was a viper in courtier’s clothing.

He sighed and twisted in his sheets, before reaching over his bedside table for the length of rope tied to the servant’s bell.

He didn’t have to wait long for his rooms to be invaded by a small cluster of people. The first to enter was a short woman, thin and frazzled, but clearly in charge of the rest of the group; two men carrying his trunks and two more carrying a tub of steaming hot water followed her. Closing the procession was a mousy girl carrying towels and clean sheets. There was no trace of Iago and the Prince’s relief was palpable.

“Good morning, your Highness.” The woman’s voice was warm and sincere. “I hope you slept well.”

The men deposited their burdens in the middle of the room and were soon dismissed with a nod. The woman then stood at the foot of the bed, looking expectantly at the Prince. Behind her hovered the girl, whose eyes danced everywhere but where the Prince lay.

Blushing slightly, the Prince rearranged the sheets around his body and cleared his throat.

“Well enough, ma’am,” the Prince said in a soft voice. He was still reeling from the night’s dreams, but the prospect of a bath and a delay in his interactions with Iago already lifted his spirits considerably.

“I’m the King’s personal Nurse; I’ve been entrusted with your care by His Majesty himself. So,” she flapped her hands at him. “Up you get. Nice hot bath and then some breakfast. If you do not mind me saying, your Highness, you are far too skinny for your own good.”

The Prince hesitated, fingers twisting in the sheets pooled at his hips.

“Oh,” the Nurse huffed. “It truly is nothing indecent, your Highness.”

She turned around nonetheless, averting her gaze. The girl did the same, although with less composure.

The Prince shuffled towards the copper basin. He sunk in the water with a soft sigh, feeling his muscles relax almost instantly. He played with the bar of soap for a moment before he started scrubbing across his torso.

Meanwhile the Nurse and the maid bustled themselves with changing the bedsheets. The Prince found his knees poking out of the water to be of paramount interest, and if he was turning a darker shade of pink across his cheeks, he could easily attribute it to the warmth of his bath.

“His Majesty will be wanting to meet you properly, sir,” said the Nurse conversationally. “He has told me of how he regrets not having greeted you at last night’s banquet.”

The Prince held his breath, waiting for a cutting remark about his intrusion in the King’s personal chambers. It never came.

“I…” He collected his racing thoughts. Either the King had not mentioned the mishap to another breathing soul or the Nurse was a trustworthy servant who was not in fact ready to judge the Prince for his social ineptitude. Either scenario sat well with the Prince and eased off a fraction of his burning shame.

“Yes,” he finally managed. “I was slightly vexed myself about it, but it could not be avoided. I certainly did not expect His Majesty to be waiting at the castle’s gates.”

The Nurse clucked her tongue and frowned. “And such a shame he was not.”

The Prince whipped his head around, startled by such condescending words aimed at their sovereign.

“You… you speak boldly of His Majesty,” he said.

“Why ever should I not!” she scoffed. “I saw him leaving his mother’s womb with my own two eyes. I have nothing but the deepest affection for His Majesty, true, but there come days when I feel like a well-deserved chiding is in dire need. The nerves on him, leaving your Highness to fend for himself in an unknown environment after such a long voyage.”

The Prince bowed his head to hide his smile. What a remarkable picture: His Majesty, the King of England, a man who struck terror in his enemies’ eyes on the battlefield, a man who had no qualms sending people to the gallows under the flimsiest of pretences—scolded like a child by his old Nurse.

The Prince decided right there and then that he liked this peculiar motherly woman very much.

 

* * *

 

Once he was clean and dry, the Prince was left on his own to get dressed, with a promise on the Nurse’s part to be back briefly with some nourishment. He tried to protest, but his own stomach reminded him loudly that he had not a morsel to eat since before the ship entered the harbour.

He settled to wait in a chair by the newly built fire. He wondered what it would be like to meet with the King in the light of day. Would he jest about the night’s events? Tease him again about his appearance, pretending to show a misplaced interest in his figure? Most importantly, would he be able to discern how much his words had affected the young Prince? He blushed at the prospect of having his desire for the man’s appraisal be read so easily on his features.

This train of thought was interrupted by the return of the Nurse, carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a pitcher of water. He thanked her and she remarked once again how despicable it was that he had not received a proper welcome the night before.

“Ma’am, you fret too much,” said the Prince around a mouthful of cheese. “I merely had a bit of a brusque welcome. Nothing to worry about.” He did not mention the pit of loneliness that had opened in his chest at his arrival at the castle, or Iago’s irksome presence and his meddling with the rooms, which had caused his abject mortification in the face of the King.

But the Nurse was undeterred. “Your Highness, you do not know the inner machinations of this court yet and I strongly advise you to not become entangled with them past what’s requested of you. There are ruthless people who snaked their way inside it and have now wrapped themselves like vines around its heart. They are dangerous people, my Lord. Please be careful.”

The Prince was taken aback. He had known this woman for little more than an hour and she was already treating him like her own kin. It was an unexpected feeling, but it bloomed warm in his chest as he realised not everyone in this castle was intent on making his stay unpleasant. He promised her he would abstain from getting involved with the politics of the court, keeping to himself as much as he could. He suspected he knew perfectly of whom the Nurse spoke and was genuinely relieved to hear he was not the only one who did not trust that man.

The Nurse looked nervous still, but with a soft smile, she left him in the maid’s care to be escorted to the throne room. The Prince returned the smile before departing, thinking how it was possibly the first sincere one he had shared since his arrival at the castle.

As the two of them walked, the Prince remarked to himself how different the corridors looked in the early morning light. Gone was the oppressive feeling of walking towards the unknown in less than pleasant company, and the Prince could appreciate the intricate tapestries which decorated the walls. He was intrigued by the complexity of the woven thread and the scenes depicted were spectacular to say the least. Scenes of bucolic bliss mixed well with the occasional dragon lying defeated at the feet of a handsome knight, behind whose visor the Prince could not help but imagine seeing deep blue cobalt eyes.

He shook himself out of his reverie and willed his traitorous body to quell the surge of blood to his cheek before it was too late.

They were approaching a set of carved doors now, and the maid curtseyed once before leaving him to be announced to the room at large. He fiddled with his doublet, smoothing non-existent wrinkles with a sweaty palm, as the herald said in a clear voice, “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Denmark.”

The Prince was glad the room was smaller than the hall he had glimpsed the night before. As a result, it could only hold a fraction of the people, none of whom spared him more than a perfunctory glance as he strode inside.

The only set of eyes that bore through him from the moment he stepped into the hall until he reached the centre of the room were, of course, those of the King sitting on his throne. He seemed to study the Prince with the same amused interest as he had the night prior, and the Prince hoped with all his heart that he wouldn’t trip over his feet on the long walk across the room. Almost as an afterthought, so focused was he on not making yet another spectacle of himself, the Prince noticed Iago’s unmoving frame standing at the King’s elbow. Iago’s expression was blank, but still something unnerving danced behind those dark eyes. The man looked… displeased with something, though the Prince could not really fathom what.

The Prince knelt on the hard flagstone floor and rattled off his prepared oath, never once meeting that steely gaze of the King’s. He talked of his brother’s wish for their kingdoms to become better acquainted and of the hope that their families’ friendship would only grow warmer and steadier. He spoke of the gift of his own undisputable fealty, omitting how he had no choice but to acquiesce.

When he was finished, he held his breath and waited.

“You may rise, your Highness,” said the King. “I have only the warmest of welcome for you and hope you will find your sojourn at my court to your liking. I might be many things, but let it never be said that I am an inhospitable King, not towards those who come bearing the gift of loyalty and who are bound to be a charming addition to such a lifeless court as mine.”

Here the King paused, and when the Prince lifted his head, he chanced to meet his gaze, warm now, warmer than he could have possibly anticipated.

“I have no doubt you will fast find yourself at home here, your Highness,” the King continued, with something of a mischievous tilt to his smile. “I shall personally endeavour to make it the most enjoyable for you, you have my word.”

The Prince hid his blush behind his fringe, bowing his head deep in acceptance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long chapter for y'all because you've been super patient and amazing with me. Please note there's a bit of violence and attempted sexual assault described in passing, nothing too explicit tho (and nothing involving either of the main characters).
> 
> As ever, thanks to JL4L for being a terrific beta <3

_“A heart to love, and in that heart,_  
_Courage, to make ’s love known”_

Macbeth — Act II, Scene III

* * *

The rest of the morning washed over the Prince in a blur. The King held court for many hours and the Prince, who had not been formally dismissed, ambled about in the throne room. He listened intently to the matters that were brought to the King’s attention, biting his lip to refrain from giving his opinion on many occasions. He had expected to become bored of it quite fast, but once again the King managed to surprise him.

His Majesty was steadfast and curt, yes, but he was also fair in his judgement and proved time and again to possess a sharp mind. The Prince was riveted.

Noon came before he became aware of time passing, and the King dismissed the last of his questing subjects. He turned towards the Prince then, and inquired whether he would like to join him for lunch.

The Prince started, looked about to see whom His Majesty was addressing, and realised the room was empty now but for the two of them, a couple of guards at the door and, perpetually looming at the King’s elbow, Iago.

“I do not wish to impose, your Majesty. I can very well retire to my room and—”

“Your Highness, I have much to make amends for. Let me start by sharing my bread and salt, as befits any host.”

“I—very well, my lord.”

He followed his host out of the throne room to a small dining room. The table was already set for two, but the Prince could not tell if the second place had been intended for him or for the King’s confidante. The man, the Prince realised with a slight twinge of unease, had been silently shadowing them since the throne room and showed no interest in leaving.

“That would be all, Iago.” The King waved a hand, dismissively. He seemed to have forgotten the man had been there at all. “We will be sure to ring if we need anything.”

The stiff bend of Iago’s spine could hardly pass as a bow, and with no further glance in the Prince’s direction, he left.

“Please take a seat, your Highness.”

The Prince was startled into movement and he pulled the nearest chair out with a loud scratching sound. He winced, but the King merely lifted the corner of his mouth in amusement and did the same, sitting at the head of the table. They sat side by side in silence for a moment, as servants appeared like ghosts to fill their plates with food and their chalices with sweetened wine.

“To your health,” said the King, raising his glass.

“And yours,” replied the Prince.

“So,” the King commenced after a generous gulp of wine. “In his letter, your brother painted quite a picture of you and now I am terribly intrigued.” He paused to lick droplets of wine from his lips. “Tell me, with as much sincerity as you are willing to part with: what do you make of my court, your Highness?”

The Prince prodded at the mince pie in his plate, considering his words carefully.

“Not as different as what I would have come to expect of my native court, my lord.”

“Hmm.” The King considered this awhile. “By which you mean you deemed the whole affair dull and I a King of fools, is that so?”

The Prince almost dropped his fork in his surprise. “I- I beg your pardon?”

The King’s laugh was warm and strangely soothing.

“I am merely teasing. Your Highness colours so prettily when embarrassed. It is most endearing.”

The Prince could feel his face heat up further at such words, and he fought fruitlessly to keep a smile from pulling at his lips.

“Ah, and he smiles too! Your brother never made mention of that,” said the King in a soft voice.

Once again those piercing blue eyes met the Prince’s gaze and he dared to believe for one moment that the heat he could unmistakably read in them was for him and him alone. His skin prickled with the memory of the past night, of being flirtatiously assessed like a prize in the King’s chambers. He only remembered to breathe when the King released him to pour them both some more wine. The Prince drank it gratefully.

“I can hardly blame you. In all fairness, I am surrounded by witless fools most of my waking hours,” the King sighed.

The Prince rubbed his finger along the stem of his chalice. The sweetness of the wine only made it easier to mask its strength and the Prince could feel his blood running warmer with every sip. The King’s easy smile emboldened him.

“Well most of them _might_ be. But not- not all of them.” His mouth felt dry and he drank some more. “It’s through no fault of their own that they should miss something so obvious as the actual culprit behind somebody’s fibbing.”

The King arched his eyebrows. “You think I passed wrong judgement in my court.”

“Not _intentionally_!” he hastened to correct.

“No, I just could not help being an idiot.” The King’s mouth hardened into a straight line but his eyes glinted with amusement still.

The Prince nodded absently, the wine now singing through his veins and making his tongue loose beyond what would be considered wise. He carried on.

“Yes, well, for example. Surely that farmer’s act – the last one, the one who allegedly murdered his own farm hand – was convincing, if you’re obtuse enough to not actually _observe_. It is _obvious_ the daughter did it if you just bothered to see—”

The Prince stopped on a sharp inhale, muddily aware now who he was speaking to. His head swam a bit as he focussed his eyes on the man sitting next to him. Knots started to form in his stomach.

The King merely looked at him, his bristly chin propped now on his palm, oddly at ease.

“Please,” he said. “Tell me why I might have just sent an innocent man to the gallows.”

“Well, the bloodstains of course,” the Prince blurted out.

“Of course.”

If only the King would stop looking so maddeningly endeared, the Prince would certainly manage to unravel his thoughts in a straight clear line. He took another steadying gulp of his wine and the King’s eyes followed his bobbing Adam’s apple. The tip of the King’s tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth and the Prince was transfixed.

“Right. The- the bloodstains. On her dress.” He cleared his throat. “There were evident traces of blood on the front of the farmer’s daughter’s dress, only they had been haphazardly covered in mud. _Deliberately_ so, I believe.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Now the father, he did not have any traces of blood on his person. Well, barely any, considering he had confessed to having gutted the farmboy like a fish.” He bit into his lip, afraid to have let his mouth run ahead of himself, forgetting form and propriety further than he already had. But the King merely hummed and indicated he should continue with a tip of his head.

“She could have merely been present at the scene of the murder, stained her dress by accident. But then, why bother covering the stains? Because she had committed the crime and the father wanted to cover the traces as best he could. There would have been little to no time between the father coming home to find his daughter covered in blood and someone raising the alarm, so masking the worst of the stains under a cake of mud seemed the only convincing option – smart too, since it fooled his Majesty’s whole court. Now as for motive.” The Prince leaned forward in his seat, engrossed now in his own string of deductions. “I had cause to walk close to her while your Majesty was hearing the father’s tale and I instantly noticed three things. One, she could not stop rubbing at her hands, compulsively, almost as if trying to get rid of an invisible stain. Which led me to notice the second thing: she had dark purple marks on her wrists and the neckline of her dress was ripped, indicating a struggle. And lastly, she reeked of strong alcohol but did not look inebriated herself, which likely meant the same person who engaged her in a struggle actually was.”

He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “So we have an aggressive farmboy, most likely intoxicated, trying to have his way with a peasant girl. The girl acts in self-defence, a struggle ensues in which a knife is brought forth, either by the boy or the girl, but ultimately it ends with the boy’s intestines on the floor and the girl covered in gore. The father comes in, helps the daughter scrub herself as clean as possible, covering what they can’t hide with mud, just as one of your Lords happens to pass by and notice the corpse. The pair is taken in for questioning and the father confesses to a crime he did not commit in order to save his daughter’s neck.”

The Prince snapped his mouth closed. His ears were ringing now with the heavy silence following his monologue and there was a small tinkering bell of alarm going off somewhere in his brain. _Be small, be discreet and courteous, keep your thoughts to yourself and for god’s sake do_ not _get involved._ He had not forgotten his brother’s parting words. Simple instructions to assure his survival amongst strangers and a King who had many times shown a hand wrapped in steel. He had thrown caution to the winds, breaking his promise to the Nurse to tread carefully in a sea haunted by invisible sharks, and speaking his mind so freely as he hadn’t done in years.

The Prince hid his quivering mouth behind his wine chalice. He dared not look to his left, to the look of horror and dismay slowly but surely taking over every crease on the King’s face. Harmless glib could be tolerated, but this. This was so much more.

“That – was…” A long inhale, a faint rasping sound from fingers rubbed against a bearded chin, then, “Extraordinary.”

The Prince very nearly choked on his wine. He dared a glance out of the corner of his eye and sure enough the King was studying him in awe, all amusement gone to be replaced with something akin to adoration.

“Your Majesty…?”

“Your mind is quite remarkable, my boy. Sharp as a knife and quick as a blaze.”

 _My boy._ The Prince felt heat start at the tip of his ears, but he still could not process past looking at the King in wide-eyed amazement.

“Of course, this could still very well be mere conjecture on your behalf, could it not? As logical as it may sound, there is hardly any proof. But I believe you might be onto something... there was something in that farmer’s story that did not sit well with me. Well, it can be easily settled.”

Before the Prince could so much as utter a reply, the King had rung a servant bell and Iago had been summoned. The Prince stared resolutely at the wooden table in front of him.

“Iago, have Lord Stanley’s farmer brought to my study, and his daughter too.”

Iago said nothing, merely nodded and turned to move away, but just as the King rose and turned his back to lead them out of the room, the Prince chanced to lift his gaze and he felt his airways clamp shut.

Pure venom trickled out of those dark eyes, seething and swivelling and pinning the Prince in his seat. He could scarcely breath as Iago twisted his mouth in a hard sneer, and he thought of a snarling feral cat, starved and ready to pounce. The Prince retreated into himself, bent his shoulders forward and scrambled out of his chair to follow the King out of the room.

His heart was still pounding in his throat when he finally caught up with his Majesty.

* * *

The matter with the farmer was easily resolved. After a series of pressing questions, the daughter finally confirmed the events had happened just as the Prince had hypothesised. The father still tried to beg to be sentenced on his daughter’s behalf, but it proved unnecessary when the King granted a pardon to both of them on the grounds of self-defence. He dismissed them when one started weeping and the other could not stop gushing blessings.

The Prince met the King’s eyes then and they shared a quiet giddy moment, grinning madly at each other, as the Prince basked in the satisfaction of a point proven. But there was something more glowing between them which the Prince could scarcely deny anymore. He opened his mouth, to say what he was unsure, just as Iago came into the room to steal the King once again on Royal matters.

“Forgive me, your Highness. We will no doubt have time later to talk once more.” The King rose from behind his desk. He strode close to the Prince on his way out, one hand half-stretched towards the front of the Prince’s doublet. He seemed to think better of it and curled it into a fist at the last moment. “Feel free to wander the castle at your leisure.” He finished with a short nod.

The Prince stood by the door a while longer after the King and Iago left. His head was still buzzing and he found it hard to stop grinning. He caught his reflection in a mirror propped in a corner, with his hair not much improved after his bath, his cheeks slightly flushed and his eyes big and round with boyish excitement. He looked like a child just back from a bout of play in the woods.

The last thought sobered him up somewhat. He ran his fingers through his curls, trying to tame them, but to no avail. He blew his cheeks out and tugged at his doublet. What use was it now, his Majesty had already seen him at his gawkiest the night prior and seemed to already have formed his judgement. He should just accept he was nothing more than a bizarre novelty for his Majesty.

His mouth twitched one last time before he strode out of the room to find something else to divert his thoughts.

He found it in the library, unsurprisingly enough. This was slightly larger than the one on Elsinore, with manuscripts from across the Irish Sea, painstakingly copied by monks over the course of centuries, and the Prince was enthralled for a good two hours.

Around sunset he heard a door opening on the far side of the room. He paid it no mind, thinking it a servant coming to check on him or the state of the room.

“I thought I might very well find you here,” said a hushed voice.

The Prince snapped his neck around. He dropped the roll of parchment he had been studying almost as if it had suddenly caught fire.

“Oh no, please.” The King was instantly apologetic. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“You did not disturb me, your Majesty. I was merely – never mind.” He rearranged the tomes and scrolls in a neat pile over the desk he had occupied before standing to face the King.

“You found my library interesting then?” The King stepped closer, his hands clasped behind him.

“Very much, my lord,” the Prince replied in a quiet voice.

Then, silence descended upon them. They stood facing each other, that low humming electricity surging up to surround them once more until it was sizzling in the Prince’s fingertips. When it became too much he turned sideways, hands idly brushing against the bookshelves. _Just like in my dream_ , he thought for a moment.

The King was still staring at him with something indescribable in his eyes. The Prince had stepped in front of one of the high arched windows and was now surrounded by the last rays of light casted by the setting sun. He imagined what he must look like, his hair haloed by sunlight, his sharp features cast in a sudden chiaroscuro.

“Oh, what you do to me, your Highness.” The King’s voice was lower, huskier. “Not a moment has gone by since I set eyes on you that I did not think about –” He cut himself off, instead stepping closer, impossibly closer. The Prince could feel the heat of his body along his side now.

“Tell me… tell me it is the same for you.”

The Prince could only nod, there was no air left in his lungs. He glanced to his right, to that weathered, earnest face looking up at him with tender heat. The King lifted a hand to cup the Prince’s cheek.

“There is nothing on this Earth I desire more than to kiss you, my dearest Prince.” The King’s thumb was dancing gently over the plush expanse of the Prince’s lower lip. “Will you let me?”

The Prince’s response was a breathless sigh, but it was enough and the King pushed forward.

Bristly lips pressed and slid over the Prince’s, soft and unyielding all at once. The Prince was reeling, his knees buckling under him and he had to lean against the wall behind him. Already he could feel his breathing grow ragged, and the rush of blood in his ears was deafening. He parted his lips with a groan, going almost limp in his sovereign’s arms.

The King drew back long enough to breathe, “You have witchcraft in your lips, my love.”

And finally, the Prince allowed himself to kiss back.


	6. Chapter 6

_“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,_  
_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”_

Sonnet 18

* * *

They kissed for what felt like aeons. Seasons changed, years trickled by, centuries turned their world to dust, and still they kissed. Or at least that was as much as the Prince’s brain was able to discern of the situation.

The Prince’s hands had found their way to the back of the King’s skull. He dared not twist his fingers in that soft silver hair, so he brushed his fingers along the hairline, thumbs stroking at the King’s jaw. The coarse hairs made his fingertips tingle pleasantly and he thought of that beard scraping along other more sensitive parts of his body with a shiver.

The King’s own hands were holding the Prince by the hips, warm and steady, grounding him. The Prince was very grateful for the wall against his back, as he had trouble holding his own weight under the unrelenting onslaught of the King’s tongue in his mouth.

He had never been kissed like this, like fire and the ocean coming in to drown him and burn him alive simultaneously. He never wanted it to stop.

When they parted to catch their breath, the King’s mouth did not stray far, leaving instead tiny burning kisses all along the Prince’s jaw until he could press his lips to the Prince’s ear.

“You precious thing, you have set me on fire.”

The Prince tried to make sense of these words, of the idea that the King could be just as affected as he. It sounded ludicrous, impossible, and his grip on the King’s neck tightened.

“My beautiful boy,” the King murmured before pressing a searing open-mouthed kiss to the Prince’s underjaw.

The praise sank deep into the Prince’s bones, making his face flush crimson. He let out a small whimper when, to his utter shame, he felt himself growing stiff in his breeches.

 _He must not notice_ , he thought wildly. _Please do not let him notice_.

He tried to wriggle sideways, to avoid any contact between his crotch and the King’s body – pressed close to him, almost caging him against the wall – but the King’s hold on his hips only grew stronger. Pushing, unyielding, until the Prince had to bend his knees apart with a groan.

“That’s it, my boy,” came the King’s husky whisper. “Let me hear you.”

There was a solid thigh between his, an invitation to find his release against it. The Prince moaned once more.

“Tell me,” the King asked him with urgency. “Tell me what you desire and I shall endeavour to comply.”

“I’m…” Half of him wanted to scream _touch me, please!_ and the other half – well he could scarcely hear the other half over the deafening thumping of his own heart in his ears.

This was all too sudden and overwhelming, he realised with whatever logic still possessed him, but he found he did not have the power to care. It was enough for him to be held and kissed and spoken to in such a reverent manner as he had never before. His head strained back, hitting the wall and exposing his neck to the King’s lips.

“Because what _I_ desire most–” Here the King licked a long stripe over the Prince’s pulse point. “–is to lay you down and feast on you for days on end.”

The Prince shivered at the words and clung more desperately to the King’s neck.

“But since I cannot do that in my sodding library, you need to tell me.” The King bit gently and his hands came round to cup the Prince’s arse and bring him flush against his thigh. “What can I do to give you pleasure, my love?”

 _Anything_ , the Prince wanted to scream. _Anything at all. I am yours_. But what actually came out of his mouth was a breathless, “Please, just… just kiss me, my lord.”

And the King’s mouth was back on his with renewed energy, lapping and nibbling, suckling on his lower lip. Meanwhile his hands kneaded at the flesh of the Prince’s arse, bringing the Prince’s groin to brush deliberately against his thigh. The friction was exquisite and the King swallowed every soft gasp that tried to escape the Prince’s lips.

The Prince’s hips had begun to move of their own volition, finding a pleasurable rhythm that had him soon writhing unabashedly against the King’s thigh. He was delirious, out of his mind with a frenzied lust, incapable even of returning the King’s kisses. He buried his face in the King’s neck with a moan when he felt his climax merely a breath away.

“Come now, you lovely thing,” the King rasped in his ear, coarse hairs brushing against his cheek. “Come for me.”

And the Prince obliged him.

With a choked sob he let his orgasm wash over him, his hips stuttering as he coated the inside of his breeches with his release. He felt the King’s arms tightening around him, holding him steady as he trembled, and realised his legs were no longer able to support his weight. His own hands were still twisted in the fabric covering the King’s shoulders, unwilling ever to let go.

Muddily, the Prince became aware of the stream of loving nonsense that was pouring out of the King’s mouth. His vision became blurry and he squeezed his eyes shut. Now, prickling somewhere at the edges of his awareness, he could feel shame inching in.

“…like a summer’s day.” The King was brushing an affectionate hand in the Prince’s curls. “And your hair is like a winter sky. So dark and beautiful.”

The Prince fought back the humiliating tears that had started to streak his cheeks. The tenderness of such words was so unlike those his mind had fabricated for him in the hours of slumber. This was the King who had fought innumerable battles and won a remarkable portion of those. Eyes ablaze and bellowing voice, he held the command of everyone in his proximity.

And yet he was now holding the Prince as if he were made of the most delicate glass.

The Prince could not make sense of anything that had happened thus far. The King’s temperament was still ever-changing and impossible to map, but he had never dared to hope such affections could be bestowed upon his person. There was also the question of his virginity, which he had not had time to mention before matters had taken such a turn. Now it hardly seemed to make a difference, but he felt that in such circumstances as these, honesty would be nevertheless greatly appreciated.

When he felt that his legs were strong enough to hold his weight, he pushed back, distancing himself from the warm body that was almost engulfing him.

“Oh, my sweet Prince.” The King had noticed his glistening eyes and brushed a thumb over his cheekbone with a sad smile. “Have I affected you so? It was never my intention to overwhelm you.”

“It is nothing, my lord… merely – that is to say, this is all rather new for me.”

The King chuckled at that.

“I assure you I am not myself in the habit of lovemaking in my library.” The King twined his fingers with the Prince’s, idly stroking the paper-thin skin of his wrist with a thumb. “You are quite an extraordinary exception.”

The Prince was stunned into silence, hypnotised by the King’s thumb moving delicately back and forth, back and forth, over his wrist.

“You misunderstand me, my lord,” the Prince finally managed to say with a watery smile. “With regards to myself, there has never been any… lovemaking to speak of. In libraries or otherwise.” Now that the truth of his inexperience was out, he found he could not quite meet the King’s eyes.

“You mean to say…”

The Prince nodded, gaze still resolutely fixed on their entwined hands.

The King sighed heavily before taking a half-step back and scrubbing his free hand over his face.

“For god’s sake, your Highness! Why did you… you didn’t think you should have made mention of this before we…” The King gestured vaguely between them.

“I… I did not think – I did not expect… I am so very sorry, your Majesty–”

“No.” The King held up a placating hand. “No, heaven’s sake, no. You should not be the one to apologise. This was all a mistake on my part, I was too forward, too bold. I should have stopped, should have realised…”

The King started untangling his fingers from the Prince’s and the Prince felt panic rising at the back of his throat. Whatever had just passed between them, the King must be made to understand just how exceptional it felt and how once tasted, the Prince’s appetite could only increase by what it fed on. It was imperative that the King understood: he could not possibly go back to fasting.

“Good my lord, that is not… I was not offended; I was–” The Prince took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the King’s hand. His voice was steady and earnest when he said the next words. “Surprised, yes, truly, but pleasantly so. It felt… ah… very good.” He could feel his cheeks colouring anew as he shifted and became aware of his uncomfortably sticky breeches.

The King’s mouth ticked upwards.

“I see.” His touch was still wary as he brought a hand to cup around the Prince’s chin. “Which is not to say I am devoid of blame, for at my age and with my experience, I should be expected to have more control over myself. And you, the fairest of temptations…”

There were still faint lines of worry around the King’s eyes and the Prince longed to kiss them away.

“Truly my lord, I believe together we can easily do away with the brunt of the blame.” The Prince was feeling more himself by the minute, and he could not resist a witty retort. “’Twas I who tried to seduce His Majesty in his chambers after all.”

The King chortled and tightened his grip on the Prince’s chin. He brought their mouths together and breathed hot against the Prince’s lips, “You are a wicked thing, aren’t you?”

Soon, they were kissing again, soft and tender this time, and the Prince felt his senses lulled into a gentle bliss. Everything felt pleasantly warm, his hands now eager to gently card through the short grey-gold strands at the King’s nape.

The only inconvenience being the aforementioned unpleasant tackiness of his breeches.

Blast it, if only he could do away with the garment entirely… but it would not do, obviously, not in the openness of the library. If only— If only they were back in his own chambers. If only he could lay upon his bed, the King’s figure looming above him, pinning him, taking him apart slowly, slowly...

The King must have noticed his wayward thoughts, for he stopped the gentle sweeps of his lips against his to enquire in a low voice, “You are longing to step into clean clothes, are you not, my love?”

 _My love_. Every time the words left the King’s lips, the Prince felt a glowing orb twisting and pulsing low in his belly. He could not deny the truth, and yet was unwilling to step away. Expecting anything more than what he had been already given was pure madness, so he wished to prolong this one unique moment in which he thought himself nothing but the most beautiful creature in the King’s eyes.

“It is quite all right; we can reprise our activities after dinner.”

The Prince’s heart skipped a beat.

“A-after dinner, my lord?”

The King leant back far enough to meet the Prince’s eyes. Earnest pools of blue studied him closely, looking for traces of apprehension or discomfort.

“Everything at your leisure. If you’d rather we never made mention of this affair again, I will understand and—”

“No, please, yes.” The Prince squeezed his eyes shut. The next words came out in a single rush of breath. “I would be honoured to receive you in my chambers later tonight, my lord.”

He felt the King’s lips against his cheekbone, then what must have been the King’s nose against the side of his.

“I will be more than glad. There is still much of you I wish to uncover.”

* * *

They parted ways not long after that. The King showed the Prince the way to his chambers through the same set of secreted corridors he had walked the night before in Iago’s company. They held hands, and stopped often to share quick burning kisses in passing alcoves. The Prince had started to feel his lips grow numb with the repeated brush of the King’s beard against his mouth, but he hardly could bring himself to mind.

 _Goodbye,_ the King’s words had been indelibly pressed against his neck, _goodbye! Parting is such sweet sorrow_ – until with one last kiss he was gone.

The Prince was once again on his own, frantically grinning behind his long fingers. Oh, he was so happy he could dance. And maybe he would. He moved towards his trunk in a graceful spin, dug blindly for new clothes – something a bit fancier perhaps, something that would catch the King’s eyes – and proceeded to change.

He was still humming under his breath, artfully arranging his curls in front of a mirror, when the Nurse came to fetch him.

“Well, your Highness looks indecently cheerful this eve,” she said with mock reproach.

The Prince’s grin only broadened and he could not resist pecking the Nurse on the cheek on his way out.

* * *

Dinner was a dull affair. It took place in the same hall from the night prior, and this time the Prince was seated atop the dais, albeit two lords and a lady down from the King, much to his annoyance. He had felt those smiling eyes on him upon his entrance, clearly appreciative of the snug suede breeches and deep burgundy doublet the Prince was sporting. His glee was short lived, though, as the King could not part with more than a curt nod for greeting and his attention had to be devoted fully to whatever state matters his lords saw fit to discuss at a dinner table. Excessive warmth and raucous voices combined to make the Prince’s experience less than agreeable.

The thought of what was to come after was the only thing keeping him civil at present, although it would have amused him to speak up about the evident affair the two lords to his right were evidently involved in, one of whom was married to the lady to his left – who was herself involved in a petty feud with the lady a couple of seats further down regarding a token given by some knight – who sat at one of the lower tables and had eyes only for the goblet of wine in front of him, a clear impending addiction…

The Prince’s thoughts scattered when he heard his name called in a now familiar voice. He turned towards the King, who had raised his chalice in a welcoming toast. The room had grown silent and all eyes were on them.

“To a long and rewarding acquaintance. May his Highness find himself comfortable at our court and,” the King’s eyes lingered over the Prince’s lips. “Never bored. To the Prince of Denmark!”

The whole hall erupted in cheers and the Prince hid his burning cheeks behind his own drink.

* * *

Iago was waiting for him by his chambers door.

The Prince had almost completely forgotten about him, so overwhelmed had he been with… everything. He clenched his jaw and gave what he hoped was an aloof and unaffected greeting.

“I hope his Highness had a pleasant day,” said the man with a stiff bow and a leer.

“It was most amiable, sir.” He tried to edge sideways, around Iago’s short body to gain access to his room, but the man seemed resolute to carry the conversation forward.

“And your afternoon, my lord, was it also amiable?”

“Very,” uttered the Prince, wishing Iago would not notice his cheeks colouring so in the low light.

Iago made a thoughtful noise. “The library does offer _many_ diversions, it is true.”

The Prince froze, but strived to look impassive.

“I am sure you are correct, sir –”

Iago nodded. “How quickly one forgets that one’s safety is utterly dependant on one’s willingness to remain on the clearly marked path.”

After a prolonged moment of tense silence, Iago bowed and took his leave.

The Prince’s hands were shaking as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

How could he have managed to forget his place at the King’s court?

He paced about the room, hands restless in his own hair. He had been reckless, and overeager in his desire to attain something as foolish as the King’s praise, not stopping once to consider the repercussions this entanglement with the King would bring him.

He took a deep breath and tried to calm his thundering heart. There was something deep and dark that twisted in his chest, impossible to tame now that he had tasted the King's lips on his own. He wanted this. _Needed_ this.

The King would arrive any minute now and he needed to decide how he should be found. Should he sit? Or stand? What was he supposed to do with his hands? What did people normally _do_ with their hands? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps standing by the bed? No that would seem too eager, would it not? By the fireplace then. Should he take off any of his garments?

Thus he came to stand, one boot off and leaning against the desk to remove the other, when a knock came from a wall to his left. He startled and answered the sound before he could properly process it.

“Come in,” he said in a broken voice.

The Prince would remember many things about that night, but nothing quite as vividly as the image of the King in his shirtsleeves smiling softly at him from a passage in the wall, his dark cobalt eyes glinting in the candle light.

All his thoughts flew awry, like leaves in an autumn breeze. He felt calm and centered, Iago a distant worry in his mind. That snake would not tarnish this moment, he would not allow it.

It was just him, and the King. Together.

He could not suppress a nervous giggle.

“I am to take it you are pleased to see me, your Highness?” The King stepped into the room with an easy countenance.

“Very, my lord,” said the Prince, grinning madly.

“And why would that be, pray do tell,” the King teased. He was looking at the Prince with the same earnest admiration from before, and the Prince felt reassured.

“Well.” The Prince straightened his back and clasped his hands behind him. “For one, you are much more pleasant company than Lady Something-or-other, who by sitting at my side at dinner felt obligated to have me partake in her woes regarding her yet unmarried daughters.”

“Aye. And you would have none of them,” said the King with a smile.

The Prince tilted his head. He had thought he had made it abundantly clear in the library that his interests lay elsewhere.

“In all honesty, no, my lord.”

The King seemed surprised at the Prince’s frank tone. He scratched his eyebrow with a thumbnail. “Ah, that’s… that’s good, I suppose.”

The man paced the room, his eyes wandering pensively. The moment was tense, brimming still with that sizzling electricity that permeated every other encounter they had previously shared. There were so many things unspoken still, things that would render any further liaison, unwise at best.

“Good my lord,” the Prince sighed. The King’s eyes were on him almost instantly. “I was just… I have _so_ _many_ questions…” He sat down on his bed in a defeated slump and looked up at his sovereign.

“Yes, of course, shall I…?” He indicated the place next to the Prince on the bed.

“Please.”

When they were seated side by side, the Prince could no longer refrain from touch. Holding the King’s hand made talking easier, or so he told himself. He thought about asking about the library, or the matter with the peasant girl, or even about the embarrassing affair from the night before, the Prince barging clumsily into the King’s chambers.

What he asked instead was, “Why did you not wish to see me at the banquet the moment I had arrived?”

The King was silent for a while, but his thumb moved gently along the back of the Prince’s hand. “Very simply because I had received no news of your arrival,” he finally said. “My surprise at finding you in my chambers was sincere, albeit my conduct was very poor. I wish I had known, so I could have greeted you sooner.” He smiled somewhat ruefully and brought their entwined fingers to his lips.

The Prince wished he could consider himself shocked that Iago had lied from the beginning, but in truth he could not. He tightened his grip on the King’s hand and decided not to make mention of the dreadful sinking feeling of rejection that had eaten him at that moment. Instead he moved onto a different question.

“Why me?” he said in a breathless whisper.

“How do you mean?”

“Why have you taken a liking to me, my lord? I am only a Prince in name, I have no connections, I have peculiar interests, sometimes I spend days not talking to a breathing soul, and I have been repeatedly told there are very few pleasing qualities about myself–”

“Hush my love,” the King said. The Prince realised he was rambling, giving voice to his most nonsensical fears, and cut himself short. The King pulled him close, circling his shoulders with an arm and making him lean his head into his shoulder. “Your connections mean nothing to me, as opposed to your interests, of which I am sure to grow very fond, very soon. I do not mind you spending time with your thoughts, for as long as you like. As for whomever had the audacity to tell his Highness he had little to no pleasing quality, well they do themselves seem to have a plentiful lack of wit.”

The Prince pressed his smile against the side of the King’s neck.

“His Highness has many pleasing qualities,” continued the King in a wistful tone. “He’s handsome and unapologetically smart and funny and I like him very much indeed.”

They sat a while longer in comfortable silence, before the Prince finally found the courage to ask, “Will you make love to me again, my lord?”

The King’s answer was a soft kiss upon his curls.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # INTERLUDE

_“Oh, how this spring of love resembleth,_  
_The uncertain glory of an April day,_  
_Which now shows all beauty of the Sun,_  
_And by and by a cloud takes all away”_

The Two Gentlemen of Verona – Act I, Scene III

* * *

That first night they lay side by side in the Prince’s bed, bathed in moonlight. There was a tender silence in which gentle touches were left to blossom into something more, something warm and languorous and impossibly beautiful. The Prince was transfixed by the King’s bare body, for him now to sweep and explore. He drank him in, covering every taut muscle and scarred ridge of flesh with the gentlest touch of his fingertips. Every mark told a story, of battles and a long life lived always to the fullest. He wanted to learn it all by heart.

The King allowed this slow exploration, guiding the Prince with soft murmured praise and words of encouragement that fanned the embers of the Prince’s desire low in his belly. It wasn’t long before the King had both of them in hand and with careful strokes brought them to completion. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, warm skin pressed close together, and come early morning, the King exited through the same concealed passage in the wall he had used the night before.

Thus began two of the happiest weeks of the Prince’s life.

The King and the Prince became inseparable, even outside the privacy of the Prince’s chambers. They could barely suppress their need to never leave each other’s side, and the King attended court and other royal business almost always with the Prince in tow. The Prince cared not for these stately matters the King was involved in, but he liked to study the stark profile of his brow, as the King listened intently to his subjects and ruled with a determined countenance. It made him giddy to remember how at night he managed to smooth out the deep lines etched around the King’s eyes with just a simple touch of his lips to his temples.

Every night the King would join the Prince in his bed and every morning he would leave it with glowing eyes and a soft smile.

They strove to keep their relationship a secret, for appearances if nothing else. No one would have dared to discuss such delicate matters to the King’s face, but the whispers grew, subtle at first. Indiscreet murmurings about the way the King seemed to favour the Prince at every public gathering, knowing looks shot in the direction of the Prince whenever he entered a room and the King dropped whatever he was doing to greet him.

The Prince was happy. More than that. He was _glowing_.

Every inch of his skin bore the fiery memory of the King’s lips trailing over it and his mouth seemed to be perennially stuck in a dazzling grin. The King cared for him, deeply, hugely, and the Prince had succumbed whole, body and soul, to his command.

He did not mind that the courtiers did not reserve him the same kindness and discussed freely the King’s previous affaires du coeur in his presence. There had been many amongst the courtiers, apparently, lords and ladies alike, whom the King had bedded, but none had stuck and all had been dismissed once they had started rising too high in the ranks.

The Prince could not find fault with that. Fools, the lot of them, using the King’s good graces for personal gain. He would not make such a mistake. For one, because he did not care about the politics of this foreign land. He could picture his brother’s shocked expression, wide-eyed with horror at just the thought. He had never been cut out for diplomacy and he would never be daft enough to start from amidst rumpled sheets shared with the King.

Most importantly, though, he had realised that the King’s affections were something to be treasured, and something that once lost were impossible to regain. And the Prince could not fathom a world in which the King would not draw him closer to his chest and whisper _my gorgeous boy_ in his hair. Or kiss him sweetly at the juncture where neck met shoulder, leaving marks that would only be for each other’s eyes. Or be allowed to touch, eager and exhilarated, wherever the King would point him, careful and patient, until the Prince could taste him on the tip of his tongue.

It would be hell on earth. A blank odious void to which he could not go back.

But alas no good thing is made to last. The wheel of fortune turns and turns, making a fool of every man, and soon the Prince would learn first-hand the full cruel extent of a wicked mind poised to strike.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # ACT TWO

_“I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.”_

Much Ado about Nothing — Act V, Scene II

* * *

The Prince woke one morning to the sound of sheets rustling. Without opening his eyes, he stretched his limbs luxuriantly above his head, snuffling deep into the pillow pressed against the side of his face. The smell that lingered there was pleasantly familiar now and sent a warm tingly feeling all the way down to his toes.

He cracked an eye open and smiled at the vision that presented itself to him. He considered giving himself a sharp pinch, just to ensure he was not still dreaming and the King’s bare skin was in fact for him to gaze upon without reserve.

The King sat on the side of the bed, his battered back to the Prince, and, the Prince realised with a frown, was intent on pulling his breeches on. Which, the Prince decided, would not do.

With a boldness he only pretended to feel, he extended one hand and brushed it against one of the many scars that painted the King’s back.

“Are you leaving then? It is not yet near day.”

The King turned his head and smiled crookedly at the Prince. For a moment only, the Prince thought he could read something fragile and emotional in the King’s countenance and the way he looked at the Prince’s sleep-warm form, but it was gone in a flash, or maybe it had only been a product of the Prince’s imagination.

“I must, my love.” He turned forward once more, fingers working at the fastening of his breeches. “Can you not hear the lark singing?”

“That?” the Prince pouted. “That is the nightingale, I have heard it many nights singing on top of that pomegranate tree. It is not yet time for you to go. Stay.” The hand that had been idly stroking along the King’s back was now curling tentatively around his hip, as the Prince inched closer, bending his form to mould around his sovereign’s.

The King’s smile grew fonder and he leant forward to press a kiss to the Prince’s forehead. One hand lingered at the Prince’s jaw, cupping it in a small warm palm.

“Look, my precious, look at the sky. It grows paler at the east, as the first rays of the morn breach through. Shortly it will be day; I must away.”

“No,” the Prince insisted, curls shaking, “it is not daylight what you see, but a comet, an astronomical phenomenon beyond our wildest imagining. Therefore, you see, such a portentous occurrence must surely mean your presence will not go amiss. The whole court will be in disarray and we will be left to ourselves for many hours yet.”

The King huffed out a laugh and turned fully to regard his bedmate. Under the weight of that gaze, the Prince felt like butter melting in the sun. He stretched once more, for once unashamed of his own naked body hidden only by a thin sheet pooling at his waist.

“Ah,” the King’s sighed, “wise words indeed. Let the kingdom crumble in a manic frenzy, if I only get to spend my last living moments enjoying the sweetest of company.”

The King’s hands roved the Prince’s lean flanks as he spoke, raising gooseflesh in their trail. Kneeling now between the Prince’s spread legs, he leant forward to press his bristly lips just below the Prince’s navel.

“Come, death, and welcome!” the King murmured against the Prince’s skin. “My Prince wills it so.”

The Prince squirmed under the touch, heat gathering low between his legs at the same time as a tightness constricted his chest in a vise. To be spoken to in such a manner, to be handled with such tenderness—truly, the Prince had never felt more cherished in his life.

He gasped when the King’s lips trailed decisively lower, thumbs aligning with his narrow hipbones and slipping gently under the sheet. With a single tug, the Prince was exposed fully.

“You are a vision not from this world, my love. Beauty incarnate,” said the King in a worshipful voice.

The Prince bit his lower lip, fighting the irrational urge to cover himself. He twisted his fingers in his own hair instead and stared down his body until he met that gaze again. It would be impossible for the Prince to ever get accustomed to being so thoroughly pierced by such a set of eyes; and yet, following the events of the past weeks, as well as those which would no doubt shortly take place, the Prince had learnt to keep afloat and let himself drift gently in those pools of blue.

The Prince gave a small roll of his hips and successfully managed to shift the intensity of the King’s gaze where he most needed it.

“I would not wish for your death, my lord,” he said with a shy smile. “Not when you are so conveniently placed.”

The King’s warm palm stroked along the Prince’s thigh and gently, he pulled the Prince’s leg over his uninjured shoulder. He pressed a chaste kiss to his knee and then rubbed his coarse cheek all along the Prince’s thigh stopping just short of the crease where it met his groin. The Prince was suddenly rendered speechless, a crimson flush spreading steadily from his cheeks down to his torso.

“But nowhere on this earth would there ever be a sweeter place for me to die,” the King said, his words leaving his lips in a warm huff that had the Prince gasp. “Buried between your thighs.”

The Prince tightened his grip on his own hair, as the King’s tongue started a path from the base of the Prince’s cock all along its shaft in a purposeful twist. Once the King had his lips over the head, the Prince’s breath hitched, a low rumbly moan starting deep in his chest. His hands grew restless, clawing at his scalp, as the King took him deeper in his mouth.

The lewd deliberate bobbing of that gold and silver head was a magnificent sight and the Prince used the last fringes of his sanity to commit it fully to memory. He had long since dedicated a whole wing of his memory palace to the intricacies he had come to discover about this short, proud man, with a whole room in which to store these most intimate details. What it felt like to kiss that mouth until his own lips were ruddy and stinging. How fiery his blood would course through his extremities when that mouth was set on covering every inch of his skin. The softness that would line the King’s eyes the moment after he had skilfully managed to make the Prince come undone under his fingertips.

It was too much and not enough at the same time. He had been given the chance to taste bliss and now longed to spend the rest of his days consuming it all.

He was jolted out of his own spiralling thoughts when the King hollowed his cheeks, sucking the length of him almost all the way to its root, and he instinctively bucked his hips with a groan. The King’s hands came up to frame his hips and to firmly push them back against the mattress. The Prince gave another bitten-off groan and was rewarded with a low hum which reverberated along his spine. He pushed his head back against the pillows, his neck a long taut line.

Just when the Prince could feel his climax cresting and just shy of overtaking him, the King released him abruptly.

“My... my lord, pl- _please_ ,” the Prince gasped.

“Not yet, my love.” The King nosed against the length of him, kissing a path downwards to meet the Prince’s drawn up bollocks. “I intend to taste my fill of you while I can.”

The Prince rose on his elbows, shaking his head clear of the haze of lust that had claimed his senses and with a question half formed on the tip of his tongue. A question that petered into a mewl as the King’s own tongue slid wickedly to circle the Prince’s furled entrance.

“Oh god, oh, _oh_ …”

The Prince was past coherent speech and his voice grew hoarser with every swipe of that talented tongue. He had never imagined something could feel so filthy and so delicious at the same time. He could feel the King’s lips curl into a pleased smile as they wreaked havoc around his tight hole, loosening it with gentle swipes of lips and tongue.

His arms trembled under him and he fell back against the pillows with a soft thud. He hid his face behind his hands, partially muffling the keening noise he seemed to be unable to stop making.

The King kept at it, the room echoing with obscene lapping sounds mingled with a continuous stream of breathy _ah_ s, until the Prince felt like he could weep out of sheer desire. He needed more, needed something he dared not name, felt deep inside him an emptiness that needed to be filled. He was a wire coiled tight on the brink of snapping cleanly in half.

“Such a sensitive little hole,” came the King’s muffled growl. “I shall like to fill it up someday.”

The Prince’s hips jerked upwards, pressing his most vulnerable part against that stubbly jaw, feeling each coarse hair prickling against his sensitised skin. _Yes_ , he thought wildly. He imagined himself stretched tightly around the King’s length, full, so full, so _perfect_ …

“Please my lord, _please_ ,” he begged.

The King took pity on him and moved swiftly to replace his tongue with the wet tip of his finger. It breached past the loosened ring of muscle easily and pushed forward, searching. The Prince felt sparks lighting behind his eyelids and his back arched visibly off the bed. When he felt the King’s mouth back on his leaking prick, sucking sharply, the Prince knew he was lost. He spurted in hot waves and felt the King’s throat hard at work around him, swallowing every drop of his release.

The King held him in his mouth until the last of the shivers died down and the Prince lay like molten lead in the midst of the rumpled sheets. He then retrieved his finger and let the Prince slip gently from his mouth.

“If you could see yourself right now,” the King whispered huskily against the Prince’s sweat soaked skin. “My angel, my graceful Apollo, my beautiful Prince.”

Every word was accompanied with a languorous kiss - on the hip, on rib after rib, on collarbone and tendons alike - as the King slowly made his way up the Prince’s panting body. He reached the Prince’s pliant mouth and the kiss they shared was deep and tender and messy all at once. The Prince let out a soft gasp as he tasted himself, salty and musky, on the King’s tongue.

Before the Prince had regained his breath and could reply in kind, there was a sharp rap at the door and the Nurse’s fretful voice floated in.

“Your Highness, Iago is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about.”

The Prince felt the King’s muscles stiffen under his fingertips. There was a sorrowful note to his kisses now, as the King gently disentangled from the Prince’s long-limbed grip.

“Oh odious man, forcing me to leave your warm bed,” said the King with a grimace.

“But what about– I mean, what about you my lord...” The Prince flushed, his voice strangled.

The King smiled, his obviously tented breeches brushing against the Prince’s stomach.

“It shall keep, my love. A fair exchange for the lovely noises that I have managed to wring out of your beautiful throat.”

With one last kiss to the tip of the Prince’s nose, the King moved up and away. The Prince’s eyes followed him as he hastily gathered his belongings across the room. Slowly, the Prince pushed himself up against the pillows, although he remained decidedly languid and loose amongst the sheets.

“Will you visit me again tonight?” The Prince had not meant for his voice to sound as plaintive, but it could not be helped. A fool in love, was he, and as abhorrent a thought as it was, it was nothing compared to the dreadful emptiness that not being in love had brought him.

The King stopped in his movements, his clothes in disarray but decent enough for a walk through secreted passageways towards his own rooms. His eyes travelled the length of the Prince’s body.

“Believe you me when I say I would not miss your company for the world, my love.” He paused for a moment. “Here,” the King bent forward to place his handkerchief on the bed within the Prince’s grasp. The Prince reached for it tentatively, fingertips following the embroidered letters and a question in the crease of his brow.

“A token of my affection, something to remember this moment and its happiness by. No matter– no matter what the future may hold.” The King looked uncharacteristically coy, averting his gaze as soon as the words finished leaving his lips. His hand clenched briefly, an involuntary spasm that the Prince had noticed happening once or twice before. Something indescribable passed over the King’s features, a stern resolution and a pivotal moment happening somewhere deep inside him, the Prince supposed, although he could not discern what had caused it. He kept his peace and did not press for further explanation, but his grip tightened around the piece of cloth.

“I shall treasure it always, my lord,” said he soft and earnest.

The moment passed, the cloud left the King’s eyes and now they were again simply two lovers parting ways after a night spent in each other’s arms. The King smiled, although it did not fully reach his eyes.

“I shall see you at court in a while, my beauty.” He briefly tangled a finger in a wayward curl and after a last sweet kiss on the Prince’s mouth, left through the passage in the wall.

The Prince sat up with a sigh. Still smiling to himself he stood up and padded to the basin in the corner of the room. Everything still tingled pleasantly, a soft hum coursing through his veins as he rinsed his torso. He blushed when his hands came to touch the tender skin between his legs, the slight burn caused by the King’s beard sending a pleasant spark along his spine. He looked forward to bearing such an intimate reminder on his person, making itself known with every shift of his body throughout the day – it felt like heaven.

He was called out of his reverie by yet another rap at the door. He sighed again, more irritated this time, and bent to climb into last night’s clothes. Barely decent, he answered the door.

“Yes?” he greeted Iago sharply. The man’s gaze took in the Prince’s mussed hair and rumpled clothing with a clinical quality that still managed to make the Prince’s skin crawl, even weeks after their first encounter. The Prince felt like a piece of meat hanging from a butcher’s hook, assessed before purchase.

“I merely came to remind his Majesty of this morning’s court meeting. I hope I was not… interrupting.”

“No we– _I_ was just getting dressed. And if you’re looking for his Majesty, I am almost certain that the King’s chambers are just further down this corridor.”

“Oh I’m well aware where the King’s royal bedchambers are, your Highness.” Iago’s grin held all the unspoken implications that hung between them, prickly and uncomfortable.

The Prince’s grip on the doorframe tightened. He could not let Iago’s taunts ruin his good spirits. Not this day. With a stiff lip he said, “Would that be all?”

Iago bowed and took his leave.

* * *

The throne room was already almost full to bursting when the Prince reached it. It was puzzling, since the King holding court scarcely warranted more than ten people at a time being in the same room. As it was, the Prince struggled to find an alcove in which to stand undisturbed. The room felt claustrophobic with the press of people and the constant buzzing of multiple voices.

The King finally made his entrance, tight lipped and straight backed, his crown high above his brow. He looked nothing like the man who had wrought unimaginable pleasure out of the Prince’s warm body a mere hour ago. Everything in his posture reminded the Prince of a general on the verge of battle. He didn’t pay the Prince any attention, going instead straight for his throne and sitting heavily. The way he gripped the armrests turned his knuckles white and the Prince winced in sympathy.

The Prince felt uneasiness creeping up his spine. Something of magnitude was about to happen, something he should have anticipated. But what? He cast his thoughts back for hints in their most recent conversations, thinking of unrest on the continent or severe weather conditions taking their toll on the trade routes. Nothing came to mind.

He fidgeted on the spot, wringing his hands and biting his lower lip. He wished to be closer to the King, to at least ease away some of the worry he seemed to be resolutely carrying upon his shoulders. The Prince might not be practiced at wrangling with court issues, but he had always been more than eager to share their weight, if nothing else.

Just as he thought of asking a passing servant for some sort of explanation, the herald struck his staff and silence fell in the room.

“The Lady Macbeth, Queen of Scots, and her ladies-in-waiting,” he cried as the doors swung open to let a small party of women in.

The woman at the head was cherubic in appearance, golden curls framing a round pleasant face and ruby cheeks. She carried herself gracefully, her clothing simple in form while rich in material and a delicate diadem resting atop her head. The Prince was baffled that such a charming figure could cause his brave King to feel so on edge. He snuck a look out of the corner of his eye and saw a muscle jump in the King’s neck.

The Prince watched with bated breath as the Queen reached the centre of the room and knelt, just shy of the spot where the Prince himself had knelt, a lifetime ago. Her gown fanned prettily around her and her bent head shone in the candle light. Her ladies-in-waiting did the same and then the room was silent once more.

Even her voice rang sweetly as she said, “Good my lord, with this here act of obeisance I vow to swear allegiance to his majesty and the country of England, now and for the remainder of my days. I pray that our families becoming thus acquainted will entertain a solemn peace between our countries, which for time immemorial have known nothing but strife.”

It sounded eerily familiar to the Prince’s ears, reminding him of his own oath of fealty, but what he could never have predicted was the King’s answer. Jaw clenched and eyes stony, the King gave his reply in a flat monotone voice, so unlike the warm welcome he had bestowed upon the Prince.

“I thank you, my lady, and I shall hope to never disappoint your good faith.” His hands clenched twice more, slowly. “Our union will bring nothing but fortunate tidings to both our countries and I–” The King pursed his lips briefly, almost swallowing past something unpleasant. “Will feel honoured to call you my wife.”

A pit opened up at the bottom of the Prince’s stomach and he swayed in place. It was impossible, his ears _must_ be deceiving him. A misunderstanding surely, or a jest in poor taste. The King would never – he _could_ never...

Frantically, he turned to look to the Queen, just in time to catch a flash of a grin touching her lips. His throat felt lined with sand paper. He looked back towards the King, a plea, a demand, an imploration in his eyes. The King stared straight ahead.

“Pray rise, future Queen of England.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my amazing beta JL4l and please don't hate me too much ~

**Author's Note:**

>  **DRAMATIS PERSONAE**  
>  _Sherlock Holmes_ as the Prince of Denmark  
>  _John Watson_ as the King of England  
>  _Mycroft Holmes_ as the King of Denmark  
>  _James Moriarty_ as Iago  
>  _Mrs Hudson_ as the Nurse  
>  _Mary Morstan_ as the Lady Macbeth, Queen of Scots
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ [consultinggalpals](http://consultinggalpals.tumblr.com)


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